A Summer in Paris Read online

  But Alain had already forgotten all about trying to make sense of the strange word he had just heard for the first time. He was absorbed in her photographs. Carefully he examined each one of them, growing more and more excited.

  “Kristy,” he finally said in an awed voice, “these photographs of yours are magnificent. Why, I had no idea you were such a talented photographer.”

  “Neither did I,” she replied. Rather than being falsely modest, her words were sincere. “I mean, I’ve never taken any pictures like this before. Oh, sure, I fooled around with a camera, taking pictures of my friends or my family or whatever. But this is the first tune I ever tried to do anything out of the ordinary. Anything that—you know—tried to make a statement.”

  “Well, then, you should be especially proud of yourself. In fact, I just had an idea. How would you like to spend your second date with me going to some galleries over on the Left Bank? I happen to know a few that specialize in photography. You might enjoy learning about some of the techniques other photographers use. It could be quite useful.”

  Kristy was quick to agree. “Who knows? Maybe the work of those other photographers will inspire me. I’ve already decided to get some more film. In fact, I think I’ll go back into that photography store right now. I can use the money my parents just sent me for my birthday.”

  “Your birthday? I did not know it was your birthday!”

  “Well, it’s not. At least, not yet. My parents sent me a card a little early. I guess they were being cautious, since the mail has so far to go and all.”

  “When is your birthday?”

  “Next Monday. July twenty-eighth.”

  “Well, then, I hope you will allow me to take you out to dinner on that evening.”

  “Oh, Alain, you don’t have to do that.” Despite her polite protests, however, Kristy couldn’t have been more pleased.

  “But I want to. Of course, the restaurant where I take you to dinner probably won’t be as fancy as most of the places you’re used to.”

  Kristy could feel herself blushing. “Alain, any restaurant would be just fine.” She really meant it. In fact, she was tempted, for just a moment, to tell him the truth. She had to admit that it was kind of fun, pretending she was this made-up person who, deep down, she really longed to be. Even so, every time Alain brought up the “differences” that supposedly existed between them—those of social status, wealth, and life-style—she doubted more and more whether or not her clever little idea of inventing an entirely new identity for herself had been such a good one, after all.

  At the moment, however, she was too excited to worry about it. She was thrilled about Alain’s invitation to a birthday dinner ... and she was equally thrilled over having discovered that she had a talent for photography.

  “Well, then, let’s check out those galleries,” she said to Alain.

  And in an uncharacteristically brave action, she looped her arm through his. Maybe the real Kristy Connor, the one who was a social zero, wouldn’t have had the self-confidence to try something like that. But when it came to the other Kristy Connor, the successful, self-confident girl who had everything, throwing caution to the wind was almost second nature. That Kristy, after all, was completely comfortable with the notion of getting exactly what she wanted—especially if that meant having the time of her life romping around Paris with a boy she really liked.

  * * * *

  Jennifer, meanwhile, was finding that her days in Paris had become even more tiresome, now that she had become the charge of an overly enthusiastic tour guide. The Cartiers’ granddaughter Michèle was determined to show her a good tune. In good weather and bad, she dragged her out of bed early, outlined the day ahead over breakfast, and then tore around the city until nightfall, keeping her reluctant sidekick informed with her cheerful, nonstop chatter.

  “Tonight I want to take you to a club,” Michèle said, pulling Jennifer off the métro at a stop on the Left Bank. “It’s a great place with really loud music. There’s one band I particularly like. All the musicians have striped hair.”

  “Striped?”

  “But right now I want to show you an exhibit by the number-one photographer in France. This gallery has an exclusive show of the work of Robert Moulin. Do you know his work?”

  What could be more boring than photographs? Jennifer was thinking as she followed Michèle into the tiny gallery, a rundown, out-of-the-way storefront that was nevertheless mobbed. I’ll probably end up looking at pictures of the guy’s vacation.

  Much to her surprise, however, the photographs on display were unlike anything she had ever seen before. At first glance, the huge black-and-white blowups were undistinguishable. They looked like nothing more than designs, odd collections of shapes and colors. But as she looked at them more closely, she saw that they were actually photographs of everyday items like paper clips, ice cubes, and soap bubbles.

  “Well, Jennifer, what do you think?”

  “Frankly,” Jennifer replied without a moment’s hesitation, “I think they’re awful. I’ve never seen anything so strange in my whole life.”

  “Awful?” Michèle’s confusion was apparent from the expression on her face. “Am I understanding the English correctly? You don’t like them?”

  “I hate them. Can I make it any clearer than that?”

  “But Robert Moulin is one of the most famous, most successful photographers in France! He is considered a genius. Here in Paris, everyone is talking about him.”

  “There you have it.” With a toss of her head, Jennifer folded her arms across her chest. “It just goes to show you that there’s a basic incompatibility between the French and the Americans. It’s a cultural difference. We don’t see eye to eye on anything, and we never will—”

  “They really are magnificent, aren’t they?” In the next room, someone else was speaking English—with a very definite American accent. “What a wonderful eye this Robert Moulin has. What an imagination.... Jennifer, is that you?”

  Jennifer was astonished to find herself face-to-face with Kristy.

  “Kristy! What are you doing here?”

  “I was just going to ask you the exact same

  question! This is great, Jen, running into you like

  this “

  All of a sudden, the smile on Kristy’s face faded. “Uh, I, uh—”

  “Are you here alone?” Jennifer was looking around the gallery.

  “Uh, yes. I mean, uh, no.” Kristy froze. The last thing in the world she wanted was the chance for Alain to have a long conversation with one of her American friends, someone who knew the real Kristy Connor. All it would take was one slip, and the truth would come out. And as Kristy grew more and more fond of Alain, the prospect of having him find out that she was a fraud grew even worse.

  “Well, Kristy, are you alone or not? That’s not exactly a trick question.”

  “Uh, I’m with Alain. You know, that boy from the Sorbonne.”

  “Oh, yes. Him.” Jennifer made a face.

  Kristy, meanwhile, was glancing nervously over her shoulder. She was lucky; at the moment, Alain was so wrapped up in one particular photograph that he hadn’t even noticed she had run into someone she knew.

  “Look, Jen. This guy is pretty shy. I’d rather you didn’t-”

  “Shy! You’ve got to be kidding! Just about every time I see him, he’s pushing his way into our conversation.”

  “This is different. He and I are on a date and, uh, I don’t want anything to go wrong. Please, Jen!”

  Jennifer just shrugged. “Gosh, Kristy, are you ashamed of me?” But she turned away.

  “Thanks, Jen,” Kristy whispered. “I owe you one.”

  “Was that someone you know?” Michèle asked pleasantly, glancing over at the red-haired girl who was hurrying away.

  Jennifer gave her an odd look. “I’m not sure.”

  The rest of the day was a whirlwind of sightseeing. It was true that the Paris that Michèle was showing Jennifer was not the o
ne that most tourists got to see, Jennifer admitted begrudgingly. She supposed she was lucky to see the boutiques full of wild clothes, the off-beat galleries, the tiny cafés that were hangouts for students and other young Parisians. And when Michèle told her the ice cream parlor she took her to was the best one in all of Paris, she didn’t doubt her for a moment.

  “So what do you think of Paris now?” Michèle asked with a grin a few hours later as the two girls plopped down into a seat on the métro. They were headed back to the Cartiers’ apartment for dinner, tired after a long and busy day. “There’s a lot more to it than monuments and museums, isn’t there?”

  “Yeah, I guess there is.” Jennifer let out a loud sigh. “I just wish we didn’t have to go back to your grandparents’ house.”

  Michèle was surprised. “You do not like my grandparents?”

  “Oh, uh, I didn’t mean that, exactly. They’re nice and everything. I mean, I can see that they’re trying really hard to make my stay here in France as much fun as they can.” With a sigh, she said, “They’re just not the most exciting people in the world, that’s all.”

  Michèle raised her eyebrows. But before she had a chance to reply, the métro jolted to a stop.

  “Hey, this is our stop, isn’t it?” Jennifer said, jumping to her feet. “Come on, hurry up. We don’t want to end up in nowheresville.”

  “Nowheresville?” Michèle repeated.

  But the frown the French girl was wearing as she followed her American companion off the tram was not because of the peculiar new word she had just heard.

  * * * *

  “You know,’’ Nina said wistfully, linking her arm in Pierre’s, “I’ve been dreaming about coming to Paris practically my whole life. Ever since I was a little girl, I have been reading books about it and watching movies about it. I’ve spent a lot of time fantasizing about it, too. Now that I’m here—”

  “Now that you’re here, you’re disappointed?” the handsome young man interrupted with mock seriousness.

  “Oh, no. I’m not at all disappointed!” When she glanced over and saw the expression on his face, she realized that he was teasing. Playfully she punched his arm. “I was going to say that now that I’m here, I keep finding myself in situations that are exactly the way I’d always imagined they would be.”

  “Does this happen to be one of those times?”

  “Mmm.”

  Nina sighed as she looked around her. She was making a mental list of all the elements that were responsible for her joyous mood. It was a warm, sunny Sunday afternoon, with just the hint of a breeze that kept the July day from becoming too hot. In honor of what seemed a perfect day, she and Pierre had taken a train trip out of the city to the town of Versailles.

  The elaborate palace of Versailles had housed four French kings, including Louis XVI and his wife with extravagant taste, Marie Antoinette. The palace was so grand, in fact, that the contrast between the way royalty lived and the way most Frenchmen lived had contributed to the French Revolution.

  It was truly an amazing sight. The elegant castle consisted of several buildings, filled with elaborately decorated rooms. There were acres of gardens, pools, and fountains, and the carefully maintained grounds were dotted with pieces of fine sculpture. It was like something out of a fairy tale, so sumptuous that it was difficult to believe that people had ever actually lived there—even kings and queens.

  Today, however, its sense of history was considerably lessened by the fact that it was filled with tourists. In fact, the line to get into the castle wound completely around the huge front courtyard, bigger than a city block. Pierre and Nina weren’t the only ones who had come up with the idea of visiting the beautiful and historic castle on a Sunday afternoon like this one, and waiting times for tours were well over an hour.

  But they didn’t care in the least. They were more than happy to spend the afternoon wandering around the grounds, strolling among the fountains and the manicured gardens and the marble statues. It was so romantic, walking hand in hand along the gravel paths, talking together and enjoying their lush surroundings.

  Pierre had brought along a picnic basket, filled with tasty things he had picked up at a charcuterie in Nina’s neighborhood on his way over to pick her up. They had just finished off a light lunch of cheese and baguettes and apple tarts.

  “Aside from taking long strolls around castles with charming Frenchmen who adore you,” Pierre went on jokingly, “how are your studies going?”

  “Very well. That is, when I have time to study.” There was a twinkle in her dark brown eyes as she added, “Between spending tune with those charming Frenchmen and posing for their paintings, I’m afraid there isn’t much time left for reading about the history of France.”

  “Ah, but you must make the time. I do not want to distract you from your studies.” Pierre’s expression had grown serious.

  “Actually, I’ve been doing some writing,” Nina said in a voice that was meant to be light.

  “Writing? I didn’t know you were interested in writing.”

  She nodded, casting him a shy look. “As a matter of fact, it’s what I hope to do as a career.”

  “Why, that is fantastic, Nina. What type of things do you write?”

  “Stories, mostly. But one day ...” Nina took a deep breath. She was, after all, about to confide something that she had never before said to anyone. “One day, I hope to write books.”

  “Magnifique! Ah, yes, that fits so well. In fact, it is perfect.”

  “What is perfect? What are you talking about?”

  “Why, you will be a great writer, I will be a great painter, and together we will be the toast of Paris! We will invite other writers and painters to our home. It will become the artistic center of the city ... perhaps even all of Europe, and—”

  Nina laughed. “My goodness. That’s a wonderful fantasy.”

  But Pierre wasn’t laughing. “It doesn’t have to be only a fantasy, Nina.”

  She looked over at him, surprised. She could see how earnest he looked. Even so, she couldn’t resist trying to tease him out of it. “Pierre du Lac. This isn’t a proposal, is it?”

  He just looked back at her with wide eyes.

  “Nina,” he said, “I know we are too young to get married. We are both just starting out with our adult lives. I must see how far I can go with my painting. I must develop as an artist, and study and learn.... And you have to grow as a person so that you can grow as a writer. I would never think of asking you for a commitment at this point in your life.”

  He hesitated for a moment before going on. “But I do know one thing,” he said, his eyes growing sad. “If I am going to have to stand at the airport in just a few short weeks and watch you get on a plane so you can fly out of my life forever....”

  He never finished. Instead, he looked away, staring off into the distance, not willing to complete the thought that had been nagging at them both almost since the day they first met.

  * * * *

  “Nina, I owe you an apology,” Pierre said later that afternoon.

  He and Nina were on the train back to Paris, after spending the entire afternoon at Versailles. Even though they were tired, they were both filled with a sense of euphoria, the feeling that came from having a wonderful time with someone special. They were relaxed, as well, as they sat shoulder to shoulder, glad to be heading back to the city.

  “An apology?” Nina repeated, blinking. “For what, Pierre?”

  “For the things I said earlier this afternoon.” He frowned. “I don’t mean to rush you, or to put pressure on you. Believe me, that is the very last thing I would ever want to do.”

  Nina remained silent, waiting for him to go on.

  “It’s just that...” He turned his face to the window. “Look,” he said, his tone suddenly changing. “There it is. Paris. See the buildings up ahead? It is the most beautiful, most romantic, most wonderful city in the world. And it belongs totally to us.”

  It belongs to yo
u, Nina was thinking, but not to me. She felt a wave of sadness as she reflected on Pierre’s words, meanwhile looking out at the view that had filled him with such joy.

  Yes, there was Paris, its beautiful blue-gray silhouette rising up along the horizon. It was like a jewel. The City of Light, it had been nicknamed. Seeing it like this—the way it seemed to emerge from out of nowhere as the train made its way closer and closer to it, the way it glowed in the fading light of late afternoon—she finally understood what had inspired that name.

  But it was true that while it was Pierre’s city, it was not hers. For the first time in days, she thought about her own home. How dull life in Connecticut seemed, compared to living in this European capital where the streets were filled with vibrant, passionate people.

  How she would miss being a part of all this. Stepping into an art museum and being inches away from some of the finest masterpieces ever created. Walking up to a stand on a street corner and buying the flakiest apple tart imaginable, still warm from the oven. Or turning off a major boulevard and finding herself on a quaint cobblestone cul-de-sac that made her wish that, like Pierre, she had a gift for capturing on canvas what she beheld with her own eyes.

  And how uninteresting the people back home seemed. Especially the boys she had known back in Weston, boys who cared about little besides sports and television. How far away all that seemed to her now ... and how unsatisfying.

  Shyly she sneaked a peek at Pierre. She saw that he was watching her. Did he sense that she was thinking about him? she wondered. And did he know that she was comparing him to the boys she had known back home ... and finding that, unsurprisingly, in her eyes there was absolutely no comparison at all?

  “Anyway, we should not be talking of such unhappy things like your leaving Paris,” Pierre went on with forced cheerfulness. “We must concentrate on what is happening here and now. These are the moments that matter.”

  When they reached the station in Paris a few minutes later, Nina found that the idea of leaving Pierre and going to the Rousseaus’ home for the evening was unbearable. Of course they were lovely people, and she looked forward to telling them all about her day at Versailles. But saying good-bye to Pierre, especially now that she was in such a melancholy mood....